


Learning Curve

by Xanateria



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: HP: EWE, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:09:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xanateria/pseuds/Xanateria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry enrolls in specialised Animagus training, and runs into the last person he wants to see. Along the way he learns a lot more about himself and his one-time rival than he ever expected to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning Curve

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t normally write in this tense, but the boys insisted. And this is the first time I have written alternating POV quite like this. I hope it works as well as I think it does. Written for hd_inspired on Livejournal in 2008. My thanks to my betas on this story: carrims and viridescence. Both of these lovely ladies went above and beyond the call of duty. *sends them a chocolate covered boy of their choice in appreciation*

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” Shoving the hair that had flopped into his face back, Harry resists the urge to back out of the room. But he wants this, dammit, which means he has to get his arse in a chair. The next specialised Animagus training class is a whole year from now, and waiting just isn’t something he is willing to accept. With an effort, he takes the remaining seat in the room, right next to Draco Malfoy. It isn’t until he’s listening to the petite witch at the front of the room begin her explanation that he realises that Malfoy hasn’t said so much as two words to him. No taunts, no jibes, no sarcasm, no acknowledgement of any kind. But he doesn’t have time to puzzle over it, as the details of how the class will work prove more complicated than he expected.

“If you choose to take this class, you will be undertaking a full time job,” the witch, who introduces herself as Matilda, tells them. “Some of those here have had interesting…transitions…into post war life,” she says with only the briefest of looks at Harry, but he can feel his cheeks heat in embarrassment. “But if you are looking for something you can dabble in, you would be far better off to look elsewhere. The accelerated program includes classes in theory, ethics, and applications, as well as the practicals. Guest speakers will be announced later and attendance to all of them will be mandatory.” She pauses, making eye contact with them all. “It is important to note that what you are contemplating involves enormous effort, often for an unexpected or uncomfortable result.” And she continues, detailing stories of various historical figures who undertook rigorous training only to discover that they were incapable of achieving the transformation, or were so profoundly unhappy with their animal forms they might as well have been.

He can’t help but wonder what the hell he would do if that happened to him. But Harry refuses to think about that too closely. He’s given the wizarding world their hero long enough. Now it’s time to do something for himself, rather than fitting into the neat little slots of what was expected of him. If he doesn’t, he isn’t sure how much longer he will recognise himself. Matilda is speaking again though, and he wrenches his attention back to the meeting room.

“Now that you have a better idea of what will be involved,” she says, “I should also tell you that simply being here is not enough to earn a passing grade. And those of you who are here in hopes of bolstering an Auror application should be aware that they do not look at candidates who achieve anything but an O or higher. And I can assure you that will not be an easy thing.”

The standards aren’t a surprise, but they have a sudden ball of nerves fluttering in Harry’s stomach, so he has to fight to listen to the end of the speech.

“If none of that has put you off, then I would ask that you sign your name before leaving.” She gestures with her wand, and a quill and parchment appear on the far end of the table she is leaning against.

Chairs scrape against stone as those in the room stand and shuffle their way to the front. Half a dozen just keep walking past the table, and out the door without stopping. Harry waits, half expecting Malfoy to think it a bit much and follow them, but he only moves to join those queuing up to sign their name. Without really stopping to think about it, he gets in line behind the tall blond, inhaling the scent of expensive cologne. It occurs to him that Malfoy should be objecting to him being so close, but still, the other man says nothing. When all those who stay to sign finish, Matilda smiles for the first time. “Alright then, gentlemen and ladies, I will see you here on Monday morning, eight sharp.” Another wand gesture, and the parchment rolls itself up and drops smartly in her pocket. She’s out the door and gone, footsteps echoing in the hall before it occurs to him to wonder what he got himself into.

***

Draco looks up and notices Potter hesitating in the doorway to the room. For just a second he wants to curse, but he doesn’t. He knows he is the reason for the hesitation, but he is careful not to react to the sudden scrutiny from the other man in any way. He doesn’t have time to rekindle an old rivalry that doesn’t have meaning any more. Nor will he allow himself the luxury of reviving the somewhat strained formality of the relationship he had with Potter during the last months of the war. He is here to obtain a mark high enough to guarantee that he will be among those chosen to begin Auror training during the next round of applications, not to socialise.

Being an Auror is the only possible occupation he can pursue. It is the only position that will allow him the means and the authority to track down those responsible for his mother’s death. There is no one left alive to avenge her properly if he fails, so failure is not an option. Neither is letting himself risk developing relationships with any of his current peers. Relationships can turn into weaknesses to be exploited by others, and he won’t allow that to happen.

It is an adjustment, of course, learning to keep his distance from so many people. He can remember a time when he was quite social, but he doesn’t dwell on that. Instead, he focuses on maintaining his deliberately calm mask. If he is privately amused at Potter’s confusion over his lack of reaction as the lecture draws to a close, it doesn’t matter. No one would look at him and see amusement. And he is careful not to so much as smile over it until he is alone at home.

***

The harsh blare of his alarm startles Harry awake, and for a long moment he can’t remember why he’s awake. Then his brain finishes clearing the last of the sleep fog away and he can feel the grin stretching nearly across his whole face. At last, he could get a start on a life, a real life. He isn’t getting up after another late night at a Ministry function, after putting in his expected appearance. He isn’t dragging himself to another gods-forsaken location far too early in the morning to dedicate a statue or monument or some other useless soon-to-be landmark. Best of all, he doesn’t have to dread attending yet another of the endless memorial ceremonies, with the eyes of strangers accusing him, or worse all but worshipping him. It isn’t that he thinks the war and all those who had fallen defeating Voldemort should ever be forgotten. Far from it, but as each memorial ceremony was held, rather than bringing him closure, they bring only more guilt. And added to the parade of accusing faces that stared at him when he closed his eyes at night.

Squaring his jaw he pushes all thoughts of the preceding months out of his mind. He isn’t a Ministry figurehead anymore. No amount of guilt can keep him doing Arthur’s bidding, however well intentioned he might be as the new Minister. There are other people much more capable of spearheading the efforts to rebuild now. He’s determined to concentrate on doing the best he can in the Animagus training. With luck, he’ll do well enough that his Auror application will noticed. They like specialised skills after all. And Kingsley has promised him that his application will be judged on merit alone, which means he is going to need all the help he can get. He isn’t the only war hero after all, just the most well known.

He goes through his morning routine in the rather cramped bathroom of his flat, then dresses quickly and heads out the door. It won’t do to be late this early into classes, after all. It strikes him as faintly ironic that he is, for all intents and purposes, going back to school, even if it isn’t at Hogwarts. He celebrated just as much as any of his surviving year mates when they were told they wouldn’t be required to complete formal classes. Instead, practical experience in the war efforts had been taken into account, and seventh years were given a choice whether they wanted to sit for their N.E.W.T.s. But he’d missed the social side of school, and surprisingly, he’d missed learning much more than he expected.

***

Not even an hour later, though, Harry shakes his head, wondering if he really had missed learning after all. This time the sixteen of them left convene in a larger room, lined with what had seems like overly large desks—until they are piled high with the not one, not two, but four textbooks they will be reading from. Looking around the room, Harry notes that even Malfoy looks a little shocked. But as soon as he realises where his gaze has fallen, Harry wrenches it away. Just because his old rival didn’t react to him during enrolment, there’s no reason to give him ammunition now. Besides, hasn’t he spent enough time watching Malfoy? And the last time he had got in that habit he’d ended up with a mortifying crush that had taken him far too long to grow out of. Best not to go there again, he tells himself with a little nod. Surely he can ignore one person, after all.

Near the end of the afternoon, however, when Matilda finishes cramming enough theory into their heads for her satisfaction, she makes an announcement that presents one small obstacle in Harry’s plan to ignore Malfoy. “For the remainder of this class I make it a policy to require each of you to choose a study partner. This person will be most useful during practical labs, but you may of course choose to review the theory together as well.” Just like that, Harry watches with a sinking feeling in his stomach as those in the room pair off. By the looks of it, everyone knows each other at least a little. And of course, that leaves him with the very option he’s trying to avoid. It looks as though Murphy’s Law is still firmly in effect in his life.

Still trying to force himself to accept the situation, Harry doesn’t move. In the next instant, though, his jaw nearly hits the floor because Malfoy is striding smoothly over to stand in front of him. “It seems I am in need of a partner, Potter,” he begins, voice quiet, but calm. “And it appears you are in the same position.”

There is no part of his brain, no matter how tiny, that has a brief flash of Malfoy in a very interesting position indeed, Harry tells himself while he fumbles for an answer. “Yeah, I guess I am,” he finally replies, and could kick himself for sounding so stunned.

Though Malfoy surely noticed, he doesn’t offer so much as a smirk. “Well, under the circumstances, I suppose I could consent to be your partner,” the blond tells him, looking altogether too perfectly put together for a Monday morning, as far as Harry is concerned. But under the circumstances, there really is no choice but to grit his teeth at the arrogance and agree.

***

Matilda’s announcement to the classroom has his stomach tying up in knots, but Draco is careful to keep his slightly bored façade in place. Inwardly, he can’t help but remember the hideous times at Hogwarts when he was forced to participate in group projects with students from other houses. Invariably, he was the last one picked, and always ended up with a rather dismal grade. That is unacceptable now. The question is: how can he best turn a bad spot into an advantage? It’s clearly evident that most of the class is already acquainted with each other. It’s just as clear that none of them intend to ask Potter to be their partner, though whether that is because they are intimidated or already have a partner is anyone’s guess.

Draco gets up slowly, adjusting his robes so they are hanging properly, all the while watching Potter from the corner of his eye. As much as he doesn’t want a partner, it seems as though it will be easier with one he knows. At least he won’t be obligated to get to know him, or make idle small talk. The dark-haired former Gryffindor won’t expect either from him. With that firmly in mind, he saunters over to Harry’s desk. “It seems I am in need of a partner, Potter,” he begins, just in case Potter isn’t as quick to grasp the realities of the situation. “And it appears you are in the same position.”

He waits to hear agreement, careful not to react to Potter’s obvious befuddlement. The old antagonism won’t quite let him bring himself to ask the favour though, so he does what he’s always done when he doesn’t want to ask for something for fear of not getting it. “Well, under the circumstances, I suppose I could consent to be your partner,” Draco tells him. After all, when it looks as though he’s doing Potter a great favour, he can hardly refuse. Assumed consent is still consent. He was practically still in nappies when he learned that. Sure enough, his former schoolmate grinds his teeth but raises no objection to the partnership. How can he really? Draco gets to depart for home well pleased with his day’s accomplishments.

***

Harry hates working with Malfoy. He knows this because he tells himself that at least once an hour during every study session. Usually he needs the reminder after he catches himself looking at Malfoy’s admittedly superior arse, or listening to the smooth sounds of his voice rather than what he is actually saying. He hates the close contact, because he fights with his libido at least once a day, even as he wonders at how changed Malfoy is. For one thing, there is no sign of the lazy indolence he remembers so well. In fact, Malfoy works so hard it reminds him of Hermione. And though he is unfailingly present, he seems almost detached from those around him. There isn’t even any reaction when Harry needles him gently about Quidditch just to see what would happen. It’s not a bad thing, having such a driven man for a study partner, but Harry wonders what happened to change his enemy so much. Even after he defected to the side of the light near the end of the war, Malfoy lost no chance to let him know he thought Harry fell rather short as a hero. Of course, Harry whole heartedly agrees with that, though of course he never says so. Just like he never once admits how much he valued having one person who doesn’t look at him with awe that is uncomfortably close to worship.

In the third week of class, Matilda announces that their first guest speaker will be the following day. Harry looks at her, smiling slightly from where she is perched on the table that serves as her desk, and wonders idly who it might be. Phenelbert Baum, Matilda tells them, holds the current record for most transformations in one day without any ill effects. Though he is older now, when he was just about their age, Baum transformed eighteen times in one day. Feeling his eyes widen, Harry nods appreciatively. The textbooks set out careful guidelines about how often you should change, and how long you should spend in your animal body. And they recommend no more than seven times a day, because of how draining it can be.

Unfortunately, Baum’s accomplishments make him an expert on being an Animagus, but they do not make him a very good speaker. After listening closely to him stutter and stammer for the first few minutes before settling into a quiet monotone, Harry catches himself daydreaming. The slice of sky he can see through the window makes him think of flying. And that makes him think of Quidditch, of course. Thoughts of the game drop him into memories of playing at Hogwarts. And that was just exactly the wrong place to go, because that leads him to Draco. Slowly, he tips his head slightly to the left so he can observe the other man surreptitiously, then looks down at his desk. No, he isn’t going to start watching him again. But even as his pride shrieks at him from some tiny corner of his mind, his eyes are drawn back to Malfoy, because it is Malfoy dammit, not Draco. What is he thinking about, sitting so straight in the chair, deep green robes arranged perfectly? What would his lips taste like if Harry could nibble on them just once?

At that, his head jerks up, and his eyes widen again. Hopefully anyone who sees just thinks he was catching himself from nodding off. But he’s got bigger problems. Wondering what Malfoy’s lips taste like is definitely not going to keep him from rekindling a crush that still has no hope of going anywhere. Sure, Malfoy no longer gets his kicks being as cruel an arse as possible to him and all his friends. But this new calm and distant Malfoy isn’t affected by him at all. And that is almost worse. It’s like everything in the world is distant and separate, Harry included. Likely, he could go up and plant a kiss right on him, and all he would get is a raised eyebrow and some inane comment about what page they needed to read next. Even after more than two weeks of theory work together, Malfoy still speaks rarely, and then usually it is in that vague, distant, two-steps-from-bored tone that makes Harry long for sarcasm, or even anger.

It takes a minute for him to notice the absence of the droning voice, but Harry claps politely with the rest of the group when Baum finishes his remarks. Matilda recaptures the attention of the room after he leaves, assigning an overly lengthy essay on the potions history of Animagus magic. As soon as he hears the research involved, Harry’s heart slams into his throat, because it’s far too much to do alone. And then Malfoy is walking towards him, carefully neutral expression in place. The last thing he wants to do is go to the nearby library with the man, even with the protection of the rest of the class trouping along with them. But if he chooses not to go, Malfoy is bound to ask why, and how can he answer? Sorry, I can’t, because I am afraid I’ll embarrass myself and jump you in the stacks. Even the thought of it has him flushing.

They’ve divided up the books they need, scouring them both for references, when the snickering starts. Two tables over, the four occupants are looking covertly at Harry, then snickering. He knows they are looking even though they hide it. The itch he gets between his shoulder blades when he’s being watched is so strong that he has to fight to match Malfoy’s calm studiousness.

Then they move from laughter to not quite whispers pitched just loud enough for him to hear. “I can’t figure why he bothers with any of this rubbish,” the taller of the girls wonders. “Everyone knows he curried Ministry favour so he can have whatever he wants. Not like he needs to have any kind of skills,” she continues, watching her friends as they watch for Harry’s reaction.

Harry goes cold, then hot, the heat of temper prickling his skin. He imagines standing up and screaming at them about how wrong they are, how much he hated his Ministry obligations. Of numbering the faces that berate him in his dreams, when the guilt comes out of the dark to choke him. But when he blinks himself out of the fantasy, he doesn’t move. There’s no point. They won’t believe him anyway. That kind never does. As he turns back to top book in his pile, Malfoy is looking at him. It’s so fleeting he almost misses it, but when the familiar grey eyes slide away, they linger on the other table, and for the first time there is anger on his face. For some reason that makes Harry feel better.

But even though he does nothing, the laughter continues, coming on the heels of muttered innuendos that get harder and harder to ignore. Harry and Draco do their best to ignore the gossiping girls. Once they cover the bulk of the theory it’s time to begin putting it into practise. It’s easier, in some ways at least, when it’s just him and Malfoy attempting to transform. Yes, he is far too aware of his partner for comfort, but at least then he doesn’t have to listen to the backbiting. When the class gathers as a group for feedback and critique sessions he isn’t as lucky. The girl from the library is at it again still careful not to draw attention from Matilda, but still loud enough that she knows Harry can’t help but hear. This time Harry pictures spelling her voice away, while hexing her with boils to try and calm down. It almost works, as he takes deep breaths, and studies his fairly ratty trainers.

Movement to his left has him scanning the room reflexively. Old habits die hard, apparently. Then he sees Malfoy moving to stand in front of the girl and her friends. His usual calm mask is still in place and that makes his tone that much scarier when he speaks. “If you keep on with this meaningless drivel, I’ll see to it our instructor finds out you’ve been cheating for days.” The girl protests her innocence, but Malfoy continues as if he doesn’t hear her. “Everything you think of me is exactly right, so you know I can do it.” A pause to flick lint off his sleeve, then he continues. “Potter is the only reason you are free to take this class. Remember that, and try your best to keep your mouth shut.” The corner of his lip curls up in that familiar dismissive smirk, and pale grey eyes flash with disdain for a moment. That tiny glimpse of the old Malfoy is almost as shocking as being defended, and by him of all people.

Distantly, Harry feels his jaw gape, gratitude warring with shock. But even as Malfoy moves back to his place, darkly polished boots clicking against the smooth hardwood, he can’t help but wonder. Weeks of silence, broken only by the minimum of good manners, and suddenly the ice prince is defending him? The class has shown him a side of Draco he never would have expected, but standing surrounded in the practise room, Harry knows that he still doesn’t understand him. Just then he doesn’t think he ever will.

***

When the whispers start about Harry after only a few days of class, Draco is more than a bit surprised. He’s known for years that most of upper-class Wizarding society never trusted him, even after his defection from Voldemort. It was annoying, but hardly unexpected. The fact that he stopped receiving society invitations was more of a relief than anything. And he’s never really been one to care much about public opinion at the best of times. Added to that, the fact that the vast majority of people still aren’t sure of his allegiances means they are still too scared to try and harm him directly. The irony is strangely appropriate. But all things considered, he rather thought he would be the favoured target of the class gossips.

Still, even though it is not about him, he can’t help but listen. It isn’t long before his temper begins a slow burn. Clearly, many of their fellow classmates give Potter no credit. The implication that he traded his fame for favours is insulting, but somewhat predictable. But then the girl goes on to inform anyone who will listen that Potter didn’t make any real contribution to the war effort, because after all, he only did what was expected of him. That alone is enough to have his temper straining his control. Then the silly twit goes too far. “I’m quite sure all that talk of what had to be done to kill You-Know-Who was rubbish anyways. Anyone could probably have killed him,” she tells her partner, an equally empty-headed girl standing close beside her.

Slowly, careful to be unobtrusive, Draco turns his head to look at Potter. Once glance is enough to be sure that he hadn’t heard the last remark. Even if he had, it’s unlikely Harry would defend himself. Either his natural chivalry gets in his way, or he’s simply more used to it than most would expect. Draco knows from experience that it can get very tiring fighting other people’s opinions. Worse, it is often futile. But even knowing that, he cannot let the insult stand. If nothing else, he has to work with Harry for the rest of the training program, and would rather not see his partner’s work suffer the impact of an endless round of cheap shots.

He is still trying to convince himself that is his only motivation, as he stalks over to where the girl and her friends are standing. One look at her, and he knows logic would be a lost cause. That leaves him with threats. He smiles a distinctly chilly smile and waits for her to notice him. He can do threats. He had a very good teacher, after all. “If you keep on with this meaningless drivel, I’ll see to it our instructor finds out you’ve been cheating for days,” he begins, careful to keep his face impassive. He pauses while she makes the usual protests of innocence. He holds up a hand to interrupt her, and flicks off the lint on his wrist before he continues. “Everything you think of me is exactly right, so you know I can do it.” Of course, he knows he wouldn’t actually harm the brainless ninny, but she doesn’t. And people like her always believe the most wildly exaggerated rumours first.

When he sees her start to shake he knows that she believes him, and shifts closer to pitch his voice so only she can hear him. He takes a deep breath, and concentrates to find that place inside of him where the perfect little killing machine he spent years being groomed to be still lived. “What you haven’t heard about me is so much worse than what you think you know. I could kill you right now, without even the slightest bit of remorse.” And just then, that is nothing less than the truth. If nothing else, the utter lack of conscience in his eyes convinces her. Coldly satisfied at the fear seeping into her eyes, he raises his voice enough to be heard by the others in the room again. “Potter is the only reason you are free to take this class. Remember that, and try your best to keep your mouth shut,” he tells her, careful to resume his studious mask before looking her up and down disdainfully.

He feels the beginnings of a smirk wanting to form, but controls himself. He’s had his fun. Now he needs to remember the role he plays most often now. The room has gone completely silent, except for Matilda’s footsteps. She is still circulating around the room, and if she notices the quiet, she doesn’t comment. Draco can feel Potter’s gaze on him as he paces back to join his partner on the other side of the room. He knows he would see shock on the other man’s face if he looks up. But he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the roving form of their instructor and listens to the practice sessions slowly start back up. He doesn’t want to answer the questions he knows Potter would ask. Hell, he would ask them too, if their positions were reversed. After a few moments, Potter clears his throat. “Thanks,” he says quietly a moment later.

Draco gathers his things to leave, before looking into the confused green eyes currently looking at him searchingly. “Don’t mention it,” he answers, fervently hoping that the sometimes obtuse Potter would realise he meant it literally. As he strides out the door, he decides he probably isn’t that lucky.

***

Harry has only been home an hour but, all the chores are done. Even the trash is at the curb because it was something to do with his hands. Still restless, he ponders homework, but can’t focus. Calling Ron or Hermione is out, because how can he explain the day’s events to them, when it doesn’t even make any sense to him? Early summer sun floods in through the bay window, spilling on to the normally comfortable clutter. He flops onto his couch, pondering his classmates caustic words from earlier. It’s possible that being a figurehead really is all he’s good for. So many people helped engineer Voldemort’s demise that it’s never seemed quite right that he got all the credit. Sure, he was the one who actually said the spell, but despite Dumbledore’s assurances, anyone could have done that, surely. And really, what else has he accomplished? The persistently negative monologue sounds suspiciously like Aunt Petunia. Good judgement says not to listen. Shame he’s never been good at going with that.

A knock at the door yanks him out of steadily gloomier thoughts. He doesn’t even bother to curse before he opens it. “I know you didn’t miss me, Malfoy. So what the hell do you want?” Annoyed and rude, but what the hell. He still can’t fathom what reason the currently irate blond would have to defend him. And the unknown has always been a problem in his life.

One perfectly shaped eyebrow wings up in a silent question probably perfected years ago in front of the mirror. “It seems you absconded with one of the references for my section of our essay. I want to finish it tonight, so I stopped in to pick it up.” Polite reserve used for asking for the time seems to be Malfoy’s antidote for rudeness.

Harry turns from the door, stalking over to his kitchen table where he has spread out his homework earlier without a word. The signs of temper are easy enough to recognise, but he doesn’t care. Despite himself, the girl in the class got to him. But Malfoy got to him more, acting like he doesn’t even exist and then pulling that stunt today. It makes his teeth grind wondering what the hell game is being played. Sure enough, the book Draco had spent most of his time reading earlier is in the middle of the tallest pile. Sparing a glare for the red leather on principle, Harry grabs it and turns back to the door. But the pile of books topples, spilling half of them to the floor and his left heel catches on the biggest of the lot. Half a breath, and he’s falling, but not to the floor. Into a hard, muscled chest, cushioned by robes far softer than anything he’s ever owned.

Their eyes lock, and for a moment the years fall away. He’s not Harry Potter, war hero. He’s just Harry, back at school and longing for the boy who is all pointy angles and cutting remarks. He’s not the man who got there too late to save countless people; he’s just a guy in the arms of an overly attractive blond who smells too good. Malfoy is too close, apparently frozen with surprise at suddenly having his arms full of messy-haired, stocking-footed study partner. Harry’s lips close the distance between them before he even knows he’s doing it. When he realises, though, he doesn’t stop. Why bother? They’ve hated each other before. And maybe this will finally get some kind of reaction. Then their lips touch, and there’s no room for thought.

Instant heat everywhere their bodies touch has him swallowing a moan. He has his answer. Malfoy tastes like almonds, and chocolate, and a hint of coffee. But the answer just leaves him wanting more. Any minute, shock will turn to dismay, so he takes advantage of it, running his tongue along full, firm lips. When the kiss goes deeper, the room does one long spin. Need simmers in his stomach, and lower. Expecting a shove, Harry tenses, but none comes. Instead, incredibly, Malfoy kisses him back, tangling their tongues together, nibbling at his lower lip and throat. Wet and needy, and somehow desperate, the kisses go on, and they press even closer together. Harry can’t help the slight gasp, and it takes him a second to realise the embarrassingly needy moan came from his throat. As if the noise flicks a switch, Malfoy stumbles back. He grabs the book, his expression still open, almost haunted. It isn’t until after he is gone that Harry touches a hand to his lips, almost wondering if he’s dreamt the whole thing.

The following week doesn’t help his certainty that it happened, whatever the hell it was. But he thinks about it, the slick slide of Malfoy’s—Draco’s—tongue against his, how it feels to want him that badly, how it had almost seemed that he wanted it, too. Of course Malfoy is as inscrutable as ever. And they don’t talk about it. Harry tries, but is met with a blank look. And when he pushes, Draco’s face goes haunted again, so he drops it. As a distraction, he buries himself in class work. Thankfully, they are on their own for the next section, covering potions that can aid in the transformation and some of its more common side effects. Even better, the following week’s guest speaker is announced, and Harry can look forward to being able to have tea with Snape. Laughter bubbles up when he realises he’s happier the day of Snape’s lecture, but he shrugs it off. Snape isn’t a bad sort. Almost all of his horrid behaviour toward Harry was part of his cover as a spy. Lifetimes ago, they were stranded together during the East London attacks. Two rather spectacular rows later, they came to an understanding. Surprisingly, except to those who know them both best, that understanding grew into first a cordial working relationship and then to actual friendship. Snape is still a sour old goat more often than not. But that’s just the way he is.

Snape is another of the rather small group of people Harry can count on to treat him as a person. And more importantly, to see the real Harry, who gets angry, depressed, and in one memorable incident hurled a china teacup at a wall in frustration. And through it all, Snape listens, and eventually advises, albeit with a healthy dose of ever-present sarcasm. Pulling on his tie as he slides into his seat in the classroom, Harry cannot help but hope Snape will be able to advise him in this case as well as he has in the past. This time he pays careful attention to the speech. It would be just like Snape to quiz him on it later, after all. But when it is over, he tucks his notes into his bag, and waits for the crowd around the older wizard to dissipate.

“Planning on inflicting your company on me, are you?” Snape stands near the board, dark hair longer than usual, but clean. He hasn’t been brewing that day, then. That might explain the slight impatience around his eyes.

“I thought about it,” Harry admits, far too used his former teacher’s habits to be put off. Snape looks at him then, really looks, in that way he’s got that still makes Harry think he can look right into his mind. The thought of that has him squirming a bit. And of course, Snape notices. He notices everything, the bastard.

But he’s kind enough not to comment on it, at least not until they are settled at a table in the building’s nearly deserted dining hall.

“Are you not getting enough sun, Potter?” Snape’s eyes track up and down in a frank assessment that has Harry clenching his teacup.

“I’m tired. This class is more difficult than I expected.” It has the bonus of being completely true.

“Indeed. I am sure it is. But perhaps you would like to tell me what is actually troubling you.”

A pause, while Harry wrestled the sudden lump in his throat. “I’ve been working with Malfoy. More than working with him, really. But he’s not even remotely interested that way. It was just a fluke.” He stresses that, trying to convince himself. “He’s not interested in anything but class work.”

Snape’s wand moves to cast a silencing spell before he answers. “If that is true, then you have nothing to worry about. Unless of course, you want him to be interested.”

The question nearly has Harry choking on his tea. It takes a minute to stop sputtering. “It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have anything more to do with me than he has to. And he’s changed.” A further explanation sticks in his throat. It would be too much to admit he misses the snarky arse he went to school with, even to one of his few confidants.

“Your lack of an answer is an answer in and of itself.” Snape sips his tea thoughtfully, surprisingly composed considering the subject matter. “And as for Mr. Malfoy, I wonder if you know how he came to be on our side during the war?” His tone is strangely intent, watching as Harry shakes his head no. Almost a year before the final battle of the war, Draco turned his back on his father, and Voldemort. No one was more shocked than Harry when Draco presented himself to Dumbledore, willing to trade information for asylum. Even today, safely removed from it all Harry shivers, remembering the tumultuous time after that.

“Just before Draco was to take the mark, his father did something to displease the Dark Lord. As punishment, Lucius was ordered to torture Narcissa and he followed even that order. Draco had to watch, you see. All of it, and what the others who were allowed to help did to her. I think that was harder on him than what they did to him when they finished with his mother.”

Harry is one of the few people left alive who witnessed the aftermath of that Death Eater meeting. Snape managed to send Narcissa to Dumbledore’s office, where he and Harry had been going over another late night vision. The full extent of Narcissa’s injuries was horrifying enough. It is that much worse knowing Draco had watched. No wonder he is so distant now. Perhaps the worst of it, though, was that by the time Draco presented himself to Dumbledore, his mother had passed away, despite the best efforts of Madam Pomfrey. For the first time in a long time, Harry contemplates someone else’s guilt besides his own, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. How horrible must it have been to watch one parent hurt another? Even thinking about what Malfoy has been through has him feeling sick and shaky.

The talk turns to Snape’s current potion research then, and Harry breathes a sigh of relief. The revelations explain a lot, but the tangle of desire and confusion he is mired isn’t lessened. If anything, his feelings are more hopeless than before. Because now he knows that Malfoy has very good reasons not to let anyone close to him. After what he’s lost, it’s no wonder he won’t take the risk of needing anyone but himself. Though the topic of conversation shifts, he finds himself unable to shake the mental image of Draco watching helplessly while Voldemort engineered the slaughter of the one person he knew loved him completely. Sitting there, he finds himself grateful that Lucius is already in Azkaban. If the man wasn’t already behind bars he would be tempted to hunt him down and hurt him. Or perhaps hunt him down and restrain him while Draco hurts him.

There are even fewer people at tables now. The sun is setting, turning the light spilling in the windows a deep gold, streaked with pinks, red and oranges that draw his eye, even as he listens to Snape’s melodious tones. “Harry.” His head snaps up. Snape only calls him by his first name when it is something vitally important. “I know something of loving someone who can’t love you back.” Black eyes flash with remembered pain as they lock with his. “As bad as it can be, it is worse if you never know whether they could love you or not.”

Harry can’t face those eyes then. “I never said anything about love.” As answers go, it’s weak, but it’s all he has. Because it’s ridiculous. Just because he wants to get into Malfoy’s pants doesn’t mean he’s fallen for him like some bloody girl.

“No.” Snape pauses then, obviously choosing his words with great care. “You did not say it. But you’ve had strong feelings for him for so long. Love and hate are closer than most of us think.” He stops, and Harry can look up, can breathe again as they say their goodbyes and move toward the exit together. Just before Snape Apparates, he speaks again. “Whatever the reason, I think if anyone could teach Draco how to live again, it would be you.” He nods decisively, then vanishes with the tell tale crack, leaving Harry to wonder why he feels better, when so much they talked about was so vastly unsettling.

***

The following day Matilda gives them permission to actually try to transform for the first time. “Mind that you make your practise attempts in pairs,” she cautions. “And do let me know if any of you are successful.”

By mutual agreement, he and Malfoy leave the main classroom, trying nearby doors until they find a smaller one, all open space, with a mirror propped against one wall. They haven’t said much to each other in the last few days, so Harry startles a bit when Malfoy speaks. “Would it be acceptable if I try first?” he asks, carefully polite.

Settling himself on the room’s only chair, a padded window seat, Harry nods his assent. “Go on then.” If he actually talks to the other man any longer, Harry isn’t altogether sure he won’t start screaming at him. The room is warm, almost uncomfortably so, prompting a quick removal of his robes as he waits to see what happens next. As angry as he is about the fact that Malfoy won’t discuss what’s happened between them, he can’t help feeling caught up in the anticipation of the day. If this works, he will get to see a whole different side of his reluctant partner. The opportunity to know more about him is almost more exciting than the prospect of the transformation itself. After the last weeks of study, he knows how intensely personal a statement a person’s animal form can be.

***

It feels almost as if he’s melting. That’s the first thing Draco notices. A heartbeat, then another, and he can actually feel his form sliding into something else. Another beat. Though he knows it’s warm in the practise room, Draco feels suddenly cold as the change continues, as though someone is slicking his entire body with icy cold gel. It’s strange to be cold, and unable to shiver, but before he can dwell on it, there’s a sudden surge in the power level of the spell. It no longer flows like ice over his skin, but roars through him in a rushing torrent that he can sense wants nothing more than to overwhelm him. Distantly, he notices his heartbeat is louder, pounding ever faster. With an effort he focuses his mind on the instructions long since memorised. Draws the sigils of transformation in his mind, watching them flare almost as if they were burning. Another beat is loud in his ears.

Don’t try and choose the animal, just think about the best parts of yourself. Focus on how much you want to change, rather than trying to control what you changed into. It sounds easy, but he he’s been holding his control in an iron grip for so long that letting go seems almost unthinkable. But letting go will give him this one thing he knows is his alone. Between one beat and the next, there’s an overwhelming sensation of being stretched, pulled in too many directions to count.

When it fades, so does the sound of his heartbeat, though he’s still cold. That might be why the sunbeam flooding in from the window down the back wall of the room looks overwhelmingly inviting. He’s moving toward it before he really thinks about it. And he nearly ends up in a graceless heap, as he has to rapidly adjust to walking on four feet instead of two. And then it clicks. He’s done it. For all his dedication to the class, he wasn’t entirely sure it would work, but it did, and that has happiness flooding through him for the first he can recall in years. But what form did he end up with? Before his mind has fully asked the question, Draco knows the answer. Of course. It’s so obvious. He’s a cat of some variety or other. It’s still a shock, when he peers down at himself, to be looking at long, sleek fur nearly the same shade as his hair. And the tail has him doing a full body shudder, before he applies himself to figuring out what to do with it as he moves. He goes over to the mirror propped on the floor in the corner of the room to survey himself, suddenly conscious of how undignified he’s probably looked for the past few minutes.

It’s strange, looking in the mirror, expecting himself, but seeing the cream, gold and white shades of what he quickly identifies as a purebred Persian cat. Pain edges in to ball in his chest, as he remembers his mother had a similar animal when he was a child. But the wonder of his new form takes the sting out of it. Other than the fact that his face looks rather like he might have hit a wall a bit too hard, he’s made out alright. Satisfied, he turns to be sure his fur is all properly arranged, struggling a bit to think clearly, with what he knows are feline instincts overlaying his thoughts. Not that he isn’t still himself. He just suddenly has access to more than his own way of looking at the situation. That has his mouth twitching in a feline smile before he can stop himself. Just behind and to the side there is a slight noise. His body moves to face the possible threat before he really knows what he’s doing. But it’s just Potter, curled up in a rather too adorable looking ball, looking at him with wide eyes.

After a moment to consider, Draco pads carefully closer to the window seat. It seems there are more upsides to his new form than he would have expected. He can finally look his fill at the other man, without him being any the wiser. It’s been hard, keeping his walls in place, keeping the distance between them. To begin with, it had actually occurred to him to treat Potter the same as before, but he found he just didn’t have the energy for sarcasm and insults. They wouldn’t have been heartfelt anyway. The war changed Harry in many ways, but Draco has seen enough of him to know that he never was the puffed up, arrogant hero everyone made him out to be. In some ways that made keeping him at arm’s length even harder. And it didn’t help that he was damned easy on the eyes. Then again, he’d been a sucker for deep green eyes and messy black hair far longer than anyone could guess.

Lost in his memories of Harry, he doesn’t notice him moving until a hand comes down against the fur on his back hesitatingly. It makes him freeze, ears lying back before he can consider. Not that it feels bad. The simple touch of a hand nearly swamps him with contentment, and what he can almost think is security. But it’s too good, and he barely catches himself from leaning in, or worse jumping up onto his lap. That would be wrong, of course. How could he keep distance between them any other time, if his animal form is draped around one Harry Potter like a blanket? So he follows the ears back with a slight hiss, arching away from the contact. And ruthlessly ignoring that part of him that can’t help but wonder if it would really be so bad to let someone in. To let Harry, Mister I do what is honourable even if it kills me, in just a little.

***

Perched in the window seat, watching Draco pace up to the mirror, Harry barely dares to breathe. At first he is afraid to break the other man’s obvious concentration. Now, he’s just absorbed in looking. In all the times he speculated about what Draco’s Animagus form would be, he never thought about a cat. Though, from what he knows about the usual attitude of a Persian, it does seem like a perfect fit. Draco is awkward at first, but he makes it to the mirror, obviously inspecting his new body. That done he moves slowly over to stand near the window seat.

Slowly, half convinced he shouldn’t, Harry reaches down to stroke a hand down the fur that sleeks down his back. It’s soft, much softer than he expected, but he doesn’t have long to appreciate it. In the next instant, Draco’s ears lay back, and his back goes up as he arches away with a bad-tempered hiss. Apparently, changing form doesn’t alter personality, Harry notes. Then he pulls his hand away and watches Draco pace around the room. Only a few minutes go by before it’s clear he’s settling into his newfound form. He probably won’t admit to pawing at himself or batting at a sun beam, though he does both. Upon reflection Harry knows he should have considered that Draco would become a cat. He’s always had a certain almost feline grace to him. And he certainly has the ego. He has to suppress a snicker when it occurs to him to wonder what Draco will think. Somehow he doubts a Persian cat will suit Malfoy’s undoubtedly lofty standards.

Harry is content just to watch, though he can’t help his mind from wandering, considering what his form will be. Or even whether he would have one at all. So many of the most noteworthy of skills people associate with him, he only acquired thanks to his unwanted connection with Voldemort. Without that, there is no telling what he is actually capable of. What if he was making a huge mistake stepping out of the role the world has planned for him, especially in a way that requires such old and complex magic? None of his doubting questions have answers. He only knows it will crush him if killing someone turns out to be his only memorable accomplishment.

 

Just under an hour later, right before the deadline for a first transformation, Malfoy shifts back. The doubts crowding his mind back off a bit, when Draco is himself again. The opportunity is just too good to pass up. “I never pictured you as a cat person, Malfoy.” Not even the death glare he receives in return can keep the chuckles in, though he pays a price for it. Malfoy is all but silent when Harry asks if he has any pointers.

“The process doesn’t lend itself to explanation,” the blond tells him, eyes flashing. He is the picture of offended dignity, and Harry realises a cat is a better fit for him than he would have thought. Still, he reminds himself that teasing Draco never brought him anything but grief. As the afternoon wears on, Harry tries hard not to let his doubts get to him, but his concentration is shot. Unsurprisingly, he remains quite solidly in his own familiar body. “Alright, there’s no point to trying again,” Harry is finally forced to admit some two hours after sundown.

For a moment what might have been surprise flashes in Malfoy’s eyes, but he merely nods. He’s nearly out the door when he speaks. “Don’t think it to death Potter. I expect you’ll get it tomorrow.”

***

Draco has to work at keeping his expression impassive when Harry calls a halt to the practice session without having achieved a transformation. It’s not surprising that he hasn’t. Such complex magic can be tricky no matter who attempts it, and it can be affected by any number of factors from a lack of resources to a stomach ache. But so much came effortlessly for Potter for so many years, it seems at times he really is the golden boy he is made out to be by so much of the Wizarding world.

Still, it’s understandable that he doesn’t pick up this skill quite as quickly as others. Surprising, but understandable. Not that he explains that, of course; that would require a conversation. Looking at how defeated his partner is just then, a part of Draco still wants to explain the situation. But reassuring Harry will not keep him at a distance, which is vital to his plans. Standing in that practice room, though, he can feel his resolve to be distant crumbling. Perhaps it is because his animal form sees no value in deception, and can so freely accept, even expect affection. He thought his feline form would make it easier to be distant. Cats are masters of being aloof after all. They don’t need anyone. But he understands now that they may not need anyone, but they are fanatically loyal to those they choose to have in their life.

Almost in spite of himself, he can’t be silent. “Don’t think it to death Potter. I expect you’ll get it tomorrow.” He stops himself before he can continue, irritated at even that small crack in his walls. But he meant what he said in the classroom when he defended him. And he can’t help but be loyal to the one person in his life who has kept all of his promises. Potter has always been able to get to him. If he is honest with himself he can admit that it was only in the beginning of it all that Potter had really made him angry. Sometime late in their third year, anger changed to frustration because he could not stop thinking about Gryffindor’s hero. He can’t count the number of times he woke from vividly erotic dreams of suspiciously familiar green eyes, and Quidditch-toned muscles.

Not for the first time, he curses the fact that necessity forced them to work together. He has plenty of practice burying his Potter-related feelings. He has been suppressing them for so long he thought they had finally dissipated. If not for the structure of the class, he would never have been the wiser to how very wrong he was about that. Still, that is all the more reason to keep his mouth closed. The last thing he needs is the humiliation of Potter finding out his former arch-enemy wants to bed him. The thought of that is enough to have him all but running out of the practice room. Of course, he is careful not to show it, turning to leave with a practiced flourish of his robes.

***

Contrary to Draco’s expectations, Harry doesn’t manage to transform the following day. Not the following week either. When another Monday rolls around, he makes up his mind to ask Malfoy for pointers, no matter how surly the response might be. He takes so long to make up his mind that he slides into a seat just as the class is beginning. But there is no sign of Malfoy, who hasn’t been absent since they started out, and didn’t say a word about it the last time they met, working out the problems in an ethics research project. He’s probably picked up a bug, or has some unavoidable family commitment, Harry tries to tell himself. But he asks Matilda about it when they finish for the day, hoping she hasn’t noticed just how distracted he was.

“Mr. Malfoy has an excused absence for today. Anniversaries of such things are so difficult, as I am sure you know.” She is far too solemn as she says it, and Harry’s stomach clenches. It doesn’t seem possible that it has been a year since Narcissa passed away. But he knows that’s the only anniversary that would have kept his driven study partner out of the classroom.

Somewhat reluctantly, Harry heads for home. But when he starts walking, his feet don’t take him towards his house. Instead, he finds himself headed towards the address for Draco’s flat. I’m the last person he’ll want to see, he argues with himself as he walks in the deepening darkness. And he’s probably fine. But still he’s headed further away from his own home. Finally, he decides he’ll just go and let Malfoy bite his head off, get it over with, and go home. With a muttered curse, he ducks into an alley to be sure not to be seen by some stray Muggle and Apparates to save time.

It’s just cold enough to make him grateful that Malfoy answers the door quickly. Surprisingly, he doesn’t seem angry, only even more distant than usual. “Say whatever you came to say,” he says flatly.

Shivering, Harry opens his mouth, but suddenly doesn’t quite know what to say. “Can I at least say it inside?” He’s stalling, and he knows it. Fully expecting to be told to leave, he is surprised when the stony-faced blond merely opens the door wider and gestures him inside curtly. Taking a deep breath, Harry runs a hand through his hair nervously, and steps through the entry way into the living room.

Deep brown leather furniture dominates the room. Two of the walls are floor to ceiling bookshelves. The only light in the room is the golden glow of the fire, but the books he can see are ruthlessly ordered. Even in the firelight, it’s obvious that Malfoy has had better days. His shirt is untucked, even a bit wrinkled. And there are bluish purple smudges under his eyes.

“You look like shite.” It’s not what he meant to say, but still true.

“Thank you for that.” A slight curl of the lip is almost a sneer. “Now that I’ve been updated, you can consider your duty done.”

“You’re the one who let me in. I don’t think you want to be alone.” Harry is moving closer as he speaks, crowding into Malfoy’s personal space. “As much as you pretend it didn’t happen, I saw your face when I kissed you. And I know you kissed me back. You wanted it then, and you still want me now. You just don’t want to.” Harry is breathing hard, like he’s been running, heart pounding in his ears. This isn’t how this is supposed to go. He only meant to make certain that Malfoy was okay. But now that he is here, the words are coming faster than he can stop them. He’s not even sure he wants to. It feels good to be honest about how he feels. For a long moment his thundering heartbeat is the only sound, and he starts to think he was wrong. He shifts his weight to move away, but a strong hand on his forearm stops him.

“You’re right, Potter. I don’t want this. I don’t want to think about you every time I close my eyes at night. I don’t want to think about doing this to you every time I see you. But I do.” Malfoy stops talking then, because his lips are crushed against Harry’s, hard enough to bruise, but he doesn’t care. They move backwards until they are up against the wall in the entryway, and still the Draco is pushing against him, hard and hot, settling between his legs. Mouths open and both of them move to tangle their tongues together at the same time, but Draco wins this particular battle, thrusting slowly into Harry’s willing mouth while he rocks their hips together. “I’ve never wanted to want you, but I can’t remember when I haven’t.” It’s hardly recognisable as Draco’s voice, his normal smooth tones have dropped lower, dark with need that Harry recognises because he is caught in it himself. Somewhere inside where he can still think, that admission warms him.

Dropping his head back, he feels it connect with the wall with a solid thunk, but he doesn’t care. Not with Draco licking and biting his neck like that, just there in that hollow that seems directly connected to his dick. He moans once, low and ragged before his mouth is claimed again. He slides his hand under the hem of Draco’s shirt, mapping the hard muscles underneath, because he needs to touch. He wants Draco to touch him, but he can’t find his voice, mind too full of needmorenow. But it’s okay because the kisses get deeper and wetter. Through the haze the want has painted on his mind he notices there’s more space between them for an instant and then both their shirts are gone. Skin on skin contact has him getting even harder, though he didn’t think that was possible, and his hips buck up helplessly.

In the next instant, Draco pushes him back against the wall, harder than he expects, but that’s good, too. He isn’t fucking fragile after all. And the slight pain in his back just proves this is real. “Think you can handle me, do you Potter?” The sound of his name, spoken with such desire by darkened lips is almost enough to have him moaning again, but he manages a nod. “Good,” Draco tells him, one hand opening the zipper on Harry’s jeans. Words fail him when Draco wraps a hand around his cock, but he can’t help but shift restlessly. As soon as he does, he finds his hands pinned to the wall above his head. It should scare him, at least worry him a little, but it doesn’t. And Draco’s hand is just rough enough, with that oh-so-necessary slight twist on the upstroke. “Gods, that feels so good,” he finally manages.

“Of course it does. I’m good at everything.” A smile of pure wickedness gleams in the firelight, and Draco reaches up to kiss him again before moving to suck on his neck in time with the thrusts of his hand. A particularly hard bite that can’t help but leave a mark makes him gasp, and shake. But he likes it, he decides. Then Draco is speaking again. “I don’t do pity fucks, Potter.”

“I don’t either,” Harry manages to answer. “But you’ve got your hand on my dick. Don’t you think you can call me Harry now?” In answer the hand in question speeds up and Draco kisses a wet, open mouthed path down his chest to his nipples, sucking on one and then the other, smiling again at the gasps and moans of reaction that gets him. But when Harry tries to free a hand to do some touching of his own, the smile is replaced by a determined look he recognises.

“Not yet. We’re going to do this my way,” Draco growls, and it’s quite possibly the hottest thing Harry’s ever heard. But he nods, because Draco’s way is strong sure strokes that are just fast enough and more kisses that are almost violent. Heat pools at the base of his spine, and he feels his balls tighten. Head thrashing back and forth, he knows he’s shaking but he can’t stop. So close, it’s almost like pain, and then that sexy growl is back. “Come for me, Harry. Now.” The note of command is somehow impossible to resist and Harry hears himself cry out hoarsely as he comes, spilling over Draco’s hand, He can barely keep his eyes open then, but he’s glad he does, when Draco lifts his hand to taste some of the warm wetness before he whispers a quick spell to deal with the mess. If he hadn’t just come, the sight of it would have pushed him over the edge for sure, he decides.

It’s a long few minutes until Harry feels like his voice will work. “You’re still a control freak.”

“Maybe, but I didn’t hear you complaining.” Draco runs an almost gentle hand along his softened cock, not bothering to tuck him back in. “Now come on. I’m not finished with you yet. And we need a bed.”

The bedroom is dominated by a king-size bed tucked under a long picture window. The rug is plush and thick, and the sheets are cool and slick. That’s all he has time to notice before Draco pushes him down on the bed. Another whispered spell and the rest of their clothes are gone. There’s no embarrassment, though, like he’s felt in the past. How can he be embarrassed with those huge grey eyes looking at him like he’s an all-you-can-eat buffet. Pressed this close together, he can admire the sleekly muscled build Draco hides under robes. But he wants more. “I want to touch you,” he admits softly, waiting to see if that is okay.

“Fair is fair, I suppose,” Draco drawls, holding still except for a slight tremble. And then Harry’s hands are on all of the places that look so good. The line of a collarbone, the jut of a hip. He traces them all, then returns and does it all again with his tongue. A string of curses and pleas fall from Draco’s mouth, but he makes no move to stop the exploration, until Harry reaches for his painfully hard cock. “Stop.” The note of command is back, so he does. “You’ve had your fun, but I’ve got other plans for that.”

And suddenly, looking at the expression of pure lust in the other man’s eyes Harry knows. Draco wants to fuck him. The thought has him hardening again. But there is also a touch of fear. He’s never bottomed before. The few men he experimented with after the realising he wasn’t happy with Ginny had all assumed that he would top. After all, he was a hero. He was Harry Potter. And it had been easier not to correct them. To just ignore the part of him that wanted to truly let go. Now, finally here is his chance. The depth of the need that washes over him leaves him breathless and shaking. In spite of everything, he feels safe with Draco. He can’t help but hope he has finally found the person who won’t think less of him for wanting to let someone else be the strong one. For months during the war everyone had simply assumed he would take charge, so he did. But all he truly wants is to forget the weight of responsibility and finally lose control. It seems fitting somehow that it is Draco he is submitting to now, as he nods in answer to the unspoken question.

***

Despite the comforting familiarity of his bedroom, Draco is afraid he might be dreaming. Harry Potter is really in his bed, naked and hard, shifting restlessly against the dark blue satin of his second best sheets. He can’t count how many times he’s dreamt of this, fantasised about having this man in his bed, fucking him until neither of them can think of anything but each other. He knows how much he wants to do it is plain on his face, but that’s okay. It’s just him and Harry. Never one to waste an opportunity, he waits until Harry nods that he is sure, then murmurs the lubrication spell. Feeling the shivers brought on by the slick coolness, he moves quickly, attacking Harry’s mouth, thrusting his tongue back inside, letting the heat flare between them again. When they are both breathless and Harry’s letting these seriously hot little moans escape, he slides his hand down to the muscled arse beneath him, grinning appreciatively as he runs his hands over it. Just as he’s ready to spread the cheeks apart though, Harry’s whole body tenses.

It kills Draco to ask, but he does. “Have you changed your mind? Do you want me to stop?” Looking down into hesitant green eyes, he waits, holding his breath, inwardly cursing himself for thinking he could have something good in the first place.

But Harry surprises him. “No. I haven’t. It’s just that I never…” he trails off, ducking his head, obviously uncomfortable.

Since almost all the blood in his body is definitely not in his brain, it takes a second. “You’ve never bottomed?” Only a slight emphasis betrays any surprise. Harry nods, and Draco feels a grin of pure satisfaction cross his face. “I think I like that.” And he kisses Harry again, while his hands roam over his front from neck to knees for a long moment. When he feels the tension leave him, he nudges him to turn over. Then he repeats all the caresses again, starting with heated open mouthed kisses that get progressively lower. He toys with the idea of using his tongue to open Harry up, but decides not to risk spooking him. Slowly, ever so slowly he starts working one finger in. By the time he makes it to three, the broad expanse of tanned back spread out beneath him is decorated with rapidly purpling bite marks.

He lines his blood-darkened cock up with Harry’s entrance, then breathes out slowly. “Relax as much as you can. It will be easier to make it good for you if you do.” The look on Harry’s face when he pinned his hands to the wall comes to him then, and can’t help but smile again briefly, as the perfect idea for a distraction occurs to him. Another whisper and slim ropes coil around Harry hands where they are clenched around the headboard. The moan of pure need that causes has him breathing out a darkly needy laugh of his own. “Guess I know you better than I thought,” he tells the other man, trademark smirk falling into place.

“Fuck you,” Harry tells him, and Draco laughs again.

“That’s the idea.” And he starts to push his way in, stopping when the changes in breathing tell him it’s a bit too much. With an effort that has him sweating, he waits until Harry moves against him to slowly slide until he is balls deep. It feels so good; he can’t help but thrust again, and again. After a few seconds they are moving together, the air filled with the rhythmic slap of skin on skin, and the hushed curses and moans from both throats. He knows when his stroke finds Harry’s prostate, though, because suddenly he is anything but quiet.

“Ah, gods, Draco do that again,” he moans.

Draco braces himself higher up on one arm to keep the angle right. When he feels the tell tale heat of imminent orgasm sizzling through his blood, he reaches around and strokes Harry’s half-hard cock until the poor man doesn’t know whether to thrust back or down. Seconds later, Harry is coming again, Draco’s name on his lips. The clenching of inner muscles against his cock pushes Draco over the edge, and his vision whites out with pleasure. When he can feel his body again, he reaches out and grabs his wand to free Harry’s hands, listening to the other man’s still ragged breathing.

When Harry speaks it’s almost too quiet to be heard. “That was bloody amazing.”

He’s too sated himself to be up to his normal standard of snark when he replies. “Naturally.” Carefully, he moves off his slightly shorter lover, settling beside him on the bed. Normally after sex, the awkward silence drives him to be up and gone. But there’s no awkwardness, only quiet contented lassitude that come from a really mind blowing orgasm, not that he plans to admit that. Lazily, he reaches for a blanket to cover them, not willing to question that he wants Potter—Harry—to stay. In fact he doesn’t want to question anything at all. Not the surprising sense of peace he feels seeping into him, not how much he likes feeling the length of another person stretched out next to him, certainly not what happens next.

A slight movement and a deep green gaze pins his own. “I don’t do one night stands. I mean…I want more than a one off,” Harry admits, expression serious, but still with enough scared little boy in it to show what it cost him.

Draco glares at him for a moment, before letting the slight smile show. “Believe it or not, I think I’ve lost my taste for them.”

***

Even after everything that has just happened, Harry finds himself feeling shy once he finally has upper brain function again. He supposes he should expect to feel vulnerable after having what is likely the best sex of his life. But not even the warm satisfaction of truly amazing sex can keep the thoughts from crowding his brain once they start circling. Much as he doesn’t want to speak, he feels like he has to. He knows when he does, this encounter will likely end with him being shown the door. Still, after what they just shared, the very least he owes Draco is honesty. “I don’t do one night stands. I mean…I want more than a one off,” he admits. The minute the words are out, he wants to recall them. He sounds so ridiculously needy, even a bit scared. It’s positively embarrassing. When Draco glares at him, he shifts his weight, ready to get out of the bed.

But then the slender form that hides surprising muscles shifts to half drape itself over him, and when he looks up in surprise, Draco is smiling at him. It’s hesitant, barely even there really, but it’s a smile. And when the other man admits he’s lost his taste for on nighters, Harry is strangely light-headed. It takes him a few minutes to recognise that he feels happy for the first time in longer than he can remember. The next morning he wakes up with Draco still wrapped around him. Surprisingly, he slept deeply and well, and the sight of who is next to him brings only warm satisfaction. He knows a relationship with someone so volatile won’t be easy but he doesn’t care.

Even when Hermione starts giving him concerned looks, and trying to find a gentle way to break it to him that his friends think he’s lost his marbles, he only shrugs. He started the Animagus training because he wanted something for himself. And that is exactly what he got.

Of course, Draco is often still distant out of habit. And he certainly can still be a sneaky, sarcastic bastard. In fact, they have their first fight when he forgets himself and calls Ron the Weasel. The pair of them rapidly discover they are still spectacularly good at fighting. This time though the fight that degenerates into a screaming match leads to fabulous make up sex, so Harry counts himself lucky. And he knows his friends. They’ll come around when they see that this makes him happy. After all, if they can adjust to him being friends with Snape, they can accept this.

After six weeks together Draco hands him a key to his apartment, and mentions how it would be alright if Harry wanted to stay over occasionally. That same day is their second-last day of class before their final practical exam. After a rather intense snogging session with Draco in the practise room that they’ve designated as theirs, no one is more surprised than Harry when he finally manages to transform into a rather fierce-looking hawk. Of course, that means he has to fly out the window and spend his first hour as an animal in the air. When lands back in the practise room and changes back, his adrenaline is still running high from the exhilarating experience of flight. Draco looks pleased for him, but smug too. “I knew you could do it,” he says, sliding his hands into Harry’s pants for a celebratory blow job.

Of course, even in the face of Harry’s success, Draco finds something to complain about. “You couldn’t have had the decency to pick something more compatible with a cat? Think of the lost opportunities for mad passionate animal sex,” he points out rather petulantly. Knowing his lover’s many and varied kinks, Harry just laughs and tells him to think of other ways to get wild in the bedroom. Two weeks after the class finishes, Harry staggers to the bathroom and notices something different. Draco has moved all of the toiletries from his kit to the shelf over the sink. He turns to ask about it, and the blond is already behind him, looking ever so slightly uncertain. “You have a key. You spend all your time here, you might as well move in for real,” he answers with a shrug. He might have said more, but Harry tackles him to the bed. He’s learned all about implied consent by now, so he doesn’t have to stop kissing to say yes.

***

Epilogue

Kingsley and Arthur have a standing appointment for coffee once a week. It’s normally more business than pleasure, but this week Kingsley is grinning when the still new Minister of Magic steps through his office door. “You owe me, old man. Pay up.”

“What are you on about?” asks the eldest Weasley, a confused look on his face.

“You told me I was crazy to accept Malfoy for training. Even crazier when I partnered him with our Harry. Too much time in each other’s pockets you said. You were positive they would kill each other.” A pause, while the ebony skinned man flips through to the right report. “They have my current highest success rate. With their Animagus forms, where one of them can’t go, the other can. And I’ve never seen a working pair that communicates as well as they do, even if they do tend to do it at top volume.”

Clearly surprised, Arthur reads the report, and reaches for his wallet. But truth be told, he’s not unhappy to be proven wrong.

***fin***


End file.
